I am a wandering gypsy vulnerable to all beauties
These beauties attempt to throw a net over me.
Afraid that some nameless season of flowers might trap me,

I never stray into the garden alone.
I lay eggs in volumes of books, I hatch my eggs in corners of pages,
I am the cock that crows before sunrise.

I do not flee from loneliness anywhere.

Remaining in the midst of objects an
engaging my soul constantly In search of their essence,
I achieve my solitude-
Where can the months escape? As long as I hold the moon in my hand.

While man runs to capture the peaks of life,
Death runs to seize him by his hair. This very problem which
Exists in creation, is the birthplace of the tear.

Even though you keep time in a gold watch; it will not stop
From driving you towards the railway train.
Death lives in the dropping leaves of autumnal trees.
The first leaf that leaves the branch on its journey to earth
Is the prologue of autumn for the coming rain of leaves-

My feet are parched with thirst for travel.
Thirst is not quenched although I wander about
Huddle and huddles of villages and towns-

As I travel making a railway train out of all sorts of things,
Winds, clouds, leaves birds and so on.

Death tries to stop the train and arrest me; but none of them are those
That will ever stop.
They are perpetually in a state of flux, passing through endless chain
States of visibility and invisibility.

My travel has neither beginning nor an end much less a destination.
In this wild chase death meets only death.
If my book is in your hands, is it not as good as being in your hands?

by Seshendra Sharma
(b. 20th October 1927 in Andhra pradesh, India)

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